New York Dreaming
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Napoleon and Illya play a game of 'What if?  Warnings:  H/C, boredom, and paperclips


Napoleon Solo added another paper clip to the chain he had been working on for three quarters of an hour. It wasn't often that UNCLE agents were permitted the luxury of being bored, but when it did happen; it was nothing short of … well, boring.

He sighed and rocked back and forth in his office chair. The back squeaked and drew a grumble from the other side of the room.

"Must you do that?" Illya's voice was exasperated. He was as bored as Napoleon and worse at dealing with it. He was a man of action, not one for sitting around. Unlike Napoleon, he'd at least taken the effort to look as if he was doing something. If you call staring at a roster sheet for an hour something. It was beginning to look more like an exercise in how long Illya could keep the black-rimmed glasses from sliding down his nose.

"I can't help it, I'm bored. THRUSH picked a fine time to take a breather."

"Go work out."

"Can't . Mike kicked me out… said I was monopolizing the equipment." He added another paperclip to the chain. If he kept this up, he'd run out in another five minutes. Maybe he could arm wrestle Illya for more… or he could try to steal Illya's glasses. That could lead to some action for a few minutes.

"You too, huh?"

"Illya?"

"Yes, Napoleon?"

"Are we are there yet?"

"I'm sorry?" Illya at least had the decency to look confused. "There where?"

"Bad joke."

Illya snorted. "Do you know any other kind?"

"You cut to the quick." Napoleon placed his hands over his heart and pretended to grow faint.

"I try." He returned to the roster and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

"If you could do anything in the world and know you couldn't fail at it, what would you do?"

"Anything and not fail?"

"Anything…"

"Hmm, that's a good question. Are we speaking work wise or personally?"

"Either." Napoleon sat forward to pick up the last few paperclips. "Would you go into politics?"

"No, insanity doesn't run in my family as a rule."

"You wouldn't want to be our first Russian president?"

"Forgive my naiveté, but don't you have to be born here to actually run for that office?"

"We're playing 'let's pretend,' Illya."

"I don't like playing games, Napoleon, especially when I don't know the rules."

"But you do – you can do anything and not fail. Those are the rules."

Then the phone rang. Both men looked at it and Napoleon practically leapt for it.

Three days later, Napoleon sat, huddled beside the small campfire and did his best to shield it from the driving rain. The lean-to they'd constructed from branches and leaves was adequate to keep most of the rain out, but the wind was conspiring against them. Every time the rain let up, the wind increased to pick up the slack and threaten their fire.

He considered adding more wood to it. They'd stockpiled some in the back, but that would mean having to crawl out into the rain and try to find more later tonight. Not an attractive thought in unfamiliar territory. If they were careful, the wood would last and it wasn't that cold, just damp.

Illya had been working on something for the better part of a half an hour and he finally held up the final product.

"What is it?"

"It will, if all goes according to plan and stays within budget, be a depth charge. "

"Illya, for what? We're stuck in the middle of some forest with no civilization for miles. I took a look at that lake before the rain started. THRUSH didn't hide anything in that lake worth blowing up."

"That's what you say, but I am going fishing."

"With a depth charge? That's hardly sporting or kosher."

"You want kosher or you want dinner? I don't mind being cold and wet, but I'm not going hungry if I can do something about it."

Napoleon had to admit Illya had a point and remained silent. Illya picked up the depth charge and the tattered remains of the briefcase they had been assigned to retrieve. The documents were all safely tucked away in their clothes now. As soon as they got to London, they would turn the blueprints over to London HQ and then be on their way, back into the field to try to retrieve the scientist who went with them.

A teeth-rattling explosion later, Illya hobbled in, sopping wet, covered in watery detritus, and looking very disgruntled. Napoleon tried to keep a smile from his lips, but failed miserably.

"For a scientist, you are remarkably dumb at times, partner of mine. Remember that old saying, what goes up must come down? You look like a drowned rat."

"For that you can cook." Illya passed over the briefcase filled with trout. "After all, I fished."

"Hunter and Gatherer, is it? The man is back from the foraging and the poor woman has to do the dirty work."

"What dirty work? I already cleaned them. You just have to spit and roast them."

Napoleon had to admit to himself that he'd gotten the easier end of this task. When they'd been looking for wood earlier, he'd found a patch of wild onions and even some wild thyme, so tonight their meal would be rustic, but far from uncivilized.

"Did you at least leave enough water in the lake to wash up or did you try and catch it all?"

"For that you can cook breakfast too," Illya grumbled and tugged his shirt over his head. He wrung it out and hung it by the fire.

In spite of the rain and wind and the fact that his fingers were going to stink of fish for the next two days, Napoleon wouldn't change a moment. They had been successful with very little effort. He was alive, uninjured, and his very good friend was right beside him. What else could a man want?

Napoleon winced and tried to stay still. The relative calm from England hadn't followed them to Spain. THRUSH knew they were on to them now and had been waiting. The scientist had turned… no great surprise there. Most of them did when offered the kind of money THRUSH could offer. And if they were too honorable to accept money, they would often bend to the mental or physical torture THRUSH so routinely provided.

Still, Napoleon had thought he'd really reached the guy, right up to the point when the man tried to bury a knife between his shoulder blades. He'd managed to avoid more serious injury, but it didn't make the wound hurt any less.

He'd subdued the man and taken off. They would simply have to try at a later date to bring him out. There was simply no way he could haul him past the THRUSH sentries and through a mine field. And Napoleon had achieved his primary goal of locating and identifying the challenge.

He found Illya waiting for him in a small cave. The hills were riddled with them. Illya had taken one look at Napoleon and headed out. He didn't need to say anything. He'd gone back to eliminate Napoleon's blood trail. With any luck, THRUSH wouldn't have dogs or the rain would come.

Until his partner returned, Napoleon simply lay down on the ground and kept his attention focused upon shooting anything that came close and wasn't Illya shaped. He didn't see anything THRUSH, but he did nail two rabbits for dinner.

An hour later, Illya returned, sweaty and grim faced. "We should be okay. I went back to where you crossed that stream." He saw the two rabbits then. Picking them up, he disappeared again into the brush and away from their camp. The last thing they needed now was for a wild animal, attracted by the smell of blood, to come calling.

By the time Illya returned, Napoleon's back was on fire and he was feeling light headed.

"It looks pretty deep, my friend." Illya's touch was tender, but it still felt as if he was poking Napoleon with a broken bottle. "I think you need some stitches, but I need to clean it out first."

Napoleon nodded grimly. They had the small field kit every agent carried. You weren't in the game long before you were patching or sewing yourself up.

Illya stripped off his coat jacket and holster, then his shirt and finally his tee shirt. He passed the tee shirt onto Napoleon and then redressed. "Try not to pass out."

"Easy for you to say." Napoleon tried to glance up from his sprawl on the cave floor. His sleeping bag seemed pitifully thin and he longed for the comfort of Medical… more than that, the thought of a clean, efficient, flattering nurse to tend to him. All he had at the moment was a sleeping bag made of two bits of cloth and his ham fisted partner.

"At this point, yes, it is." Illya pulled a cigarette lighter from one pocket and withdrew a thin packet from another. "Would you like me to knock you out for this?" Illya held up a skinned-knuckled fist.

"No, we may need to move." Napoleon watched quietly as Illya sterilized the needle, silly considering what he'd already waded through. He'd be lucky if infection was all he picked up from this.

"Ready?"

"If that's at all possible."

"I shall try to make it neat. Grit your teeth and think of Mother Russia… or in your case, Uncle Sam."

Napoleon buried his face in Illya's tee shirt, the smell of it a small but welcome distraction. How many times had he smelled that and felt comforted? "Not an appealing thought."

"Then tell me about Monique."

"Who?"

"Or Margarita or Helen or Jessica. What was the name of the first woman you took , Napoleon. Were you both very young and very awkward? "

"That's rather personal," Napoleon protested, his voice muffled by the fabric, but he knew what Illya was doing. Giving him something to think about, something that made what he was about to endure worth it, something that gave it all value.

Napoleon licked his lips and frowned. He was trying to hold his head upright, but it had plans of its own. His mouth was totally dry, his tongue felt as if a massive toad had crawled in to take up residence and his skin felt as if it was two sizes too small.

He reached for Illya, now just dead weight on the sand. He'd lost consciousness nearly an hour ago and Napoleon was glad. At least he wasn't going to suffer. Napoleon probed his neck and found a pulse, light and thready. It wasn't going to be much longer for either of them.

The sun was slowly cooking them. Napoleon's nose sizzled; he swore he could hear it baking. No water, no way to contact anyone, no hope.

Napoleon had to admit they deserved points for trying, but it was over. His back ached from the infected knife wound and his head swam from a combination of that and sun poisoning. They were both beyond vomiting anymore.

THRUSH had known what they were doing this time dumping them in the desert. Back in the old days, to send someone into the desert was a death sentence. Not much had changed.

Not only had THRUSH won the prize this time around, they would soon have bragging rights about ridding themselves of two top UNCLE agents.

He felt Illya shiver and held him closer. They'd been so close… so close… if Illya hadn't paused, if Napoleon had moved just a fraction faster. But if's didn't mean a lot now. They were going to die as partners. Not exactly the way Napoleon had thought about going out, but at least neither of them would die alone.

Or at least that's what Napoleon hoped. Then he blinked, shook his head and blinked again as the tour bus pulled up alongside them and asked if they needed assistance. Napoleon would have wept for joy if he had had any moisture left in his body.

Medical in their Cairo office was small but cool, very quiet and very white. It had been a week since they'd been transferred here from Intensive Care. The doctors there just shook their heads in wonderment that either of them had survived at all. They weren't UNCLE; they didn't know what the agents were made of.

A noise from his right told him that Illya was awake again. They were still drifting in and out of consciousness, thanks to a heady combination of pain killers and sedatives. Neither man protested - a sure sign that they weren't well. Mostly they just kept quiet and concentrated upon healing.

"Napoleon?" Illya's voice was a rusty whisper, a souvenir from the ET tube.

"Yeah, partner?" His wasn't much better. Napoleon worked on not moving any part of his face that he didn't need to. At first the doctors had talked about skin grafts, but had abandoned the thought for now. It didn't make Napoleon's face feel any better though. His skin was still so sensitive he swore he could feel his beard growing.

"I've been thinking about that question..."

"What question, Illya?"

"That one you asked me about a month ago. If I could do anything and not fail at it, what would I do?"

That seemed like a hundred years and a million miles ago. Had it only been a month since he'd strung paper clips and complained about being bored? It didn't seem possible.

"I remember now. So what would you do?"

"Grow old."


End file.
